Almost Normal
by Zilchtastic
Summary: By the time he gets to his shop Dante feels almost human again, and that's about the best he can hope for; in Dante's case, "almost human" is as close as he ever gets.


Dante's breath heaves in and out almost violently as he dives, twists, shoots, turns and shoots again. All around him is the smell of blood and gunpowder and the weird tang of ozone, and every shot brings a shriek like the sound of breaking glass.

He's riding high on adrenaline, moving almost without thought, grinning. He's got his sword in his hands then, swinging out, and demons crumple like puppets with cut strings. They aren't Marionettes, but they're similar, he thinks; dolls filled with blood and meat and bone, all of it stolen from humans in large bloody gulps. He swings out wide, and heads fly to shatter against the far wall.

"Too easy," he says, laughing, even though this is the best workout he's gotten in months. There are so many of them, and the floor is starting to get slippery with all the spilled blood and the occasional innard, a bit of half-chewed liver or heart or brain. Demons are messy eaters, he reflects.

A jump takes him to the top of a bookshelf where he can rain bullets down on the throng; they screech and scrabble at the wood, tumbling musty books down on their own heads, snapping through shelves as they try desperately to climb, to reach him. None of them have eyes but some of them have tongues, long and thick and stretching toward him like snakes, wet and hungry.

"Sorry, kitchen's closed." He's off the top in a jump, kicking out even as he tumbles so that the shelf falls on them with a splinter and a groan. "No orders after ten, y'know."

He actually throws his landing, one leg sliding out from under him thanks to all the blood on the floor. He feels something _whoosh_ above his head; _Missed me by an inch_ he thinks, even as cooling blood seeps into the knees of his pants. He twists an arm to shoot back over his shoulder, and doesn't bother to look as he feels whatever-it-was hit the floor behind him. Whatever it was, it's dead now.

The broken bookshelf heaves. A few of the meat-puppets are still alive, still struggling with single-minded demonic determination to grab him, rend him, feast on his soft and tender inside-bits. They're the lowest of the low, all mouth and hunger, without a bit of brain between them.

"Well, you've got brains," he amends, spinning his guns just because he's got a spare moment and he can. "It's just that they're other peoples', and they're filling up your stomachs instead of your heads." He blows away the first one to emerge, and then the rest extricate themselves and the fight is back on again.

Dante _tsks_ and dodges a claw here, a broken axe there. Teeth snap inches from his skull. "It's just sad, is what it is. Didn't anyone tell you a mind is a terrible thing to taste?"

Bullet casings rattle to the floor, _tink-tink-tink!_, like background noise in a fast-beat song. It really is a dance, he thinks; unfortunately, he's the only one here who seems to know all the steps.

The demons screech in rage as he downs them in rapid succession; their fury washes over him, a hot black wave of hungers denied, a staccato beat of _need-need-need_. It's enough to steal his breath for one gut-wrenching moment, and then the last of them hits the floor with a sick, wet thump, and it's over.

The sudden quiet makes his ears ring. Dante stands for a long time, breathing in fast lungfuls of the heavy, fetid air. He's done here, but the edge isn't off yet; his heart is still kicking against his ribs with exertion and adrenaline. The blood-smell is so thick he can taste it on the back of his tongue.

Finally he skids his way over to the door. His boots leave thick wet footprints as he follows the long hallway back to the outside world.

He's still keyed up as he makes his way down the back alleys and side streets that wind their way to Devil May Cry. It's not yet dawn, but the first grey light is starting to seep into the scudding, broken clouds overhead. The pavement is wet; everything smells like rain.

By the time he gets to his shop Dante feels almost human again, and that's about the best he can hope for; in Dante's case, "almost human" is as close as he ever gets. He sits down on the damp front steps and just breathes the smell of morning as he watches the clouds turn pink-orange and golden by degrees.

There's stickiness in his hair, and a rough patch of-- _something_-- along the side of his neck. His boots are so thick with mostly-dried blood that he'll have to trash them; he toes them off and leaves them there on the steps. His socks are wet, so he leaves them there, too. If anyone wants to steal blood-soaked footgear, he thinks, they're welcome to them. He pads barefoot into the office.

The creaky wood floor is soft and cool under his feet, worn by age. He drops things as he walks: sword in a clatter not far from the door, holsters and guns soon after that. His jacket ends up in a blood-colored pool on the floor near the desk. Gloves, vest, shirt, belt; they all lay where they fall.

His pants get balled up and kicked into a corner on the bathroom tiles, and then he's cranking the water on. Rusty old pipes clink and clank, and then he's standing under the too-hot shower spray.

It hurts, he realizes distantly-- he's got the hot water turned up as high as it will go, and if he were human it'd be scalding him. He stands there with his head bowed, letting it rain down on him, letting it wash the sticky blood away. When the water runs clear, he straightens and eases on the cold tap, and then he reaches for the soap.

He jerks off in the shower near the end of the hot water, fucking his soap-slick fist in slow, even strokes. The last of his aggression bleeds away with his climax and swirls down the bathtub drain with the bubbles.

It's easier to think afterward, when he's out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his hips and his hair dripping onto his shoulders. _Coffee_, he thinks, because he's not ready to give in to sleep just yet. There's a small internal debate-- Does he find pants or start the coffeemaker first? Decisions, decisions.

He starts the coffeemaker, and then pulls out his last clean pair of pants.

"Shit. Looks like it's laundry day," he says, stepping into them sans underthings. "I hate doing laundry. The people down at the laundromat always give me such weird looks." C'mon. Like he's the only guy in the world trying to wash out bloodstains?

The smell of coffee curls into the air, warm and rich and comfortingly normal.

"Maybe I'll just stay in." Dante is used to talking to himself, used to saying things just to _say_ them. He's never been the quiet type, after all. "Watch some TV, take a nap. Order a pizza, maybe." It's sounding better the more he thinks about it. "Just have a nice, quiet afternoon."

He'll relax, he'll eat junkfood, he'll probably whip out an old Playboy and enjoy a date with his hand again, and for the rest of the day, he'll pretend like hell that he's just a normal guy doing normal guy things.

As long as no one throws a sword through his chest, he thinks, it should work out alright.


End file.
